


The Horror Of Our Love

by Erebus_And_Nyx



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: The Killing Joke (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst, At Least For Now..., Batman: The Killing Joke, Blow Jobs, Bottom Bruce, Bottom Joker, Dysfunctional Family, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Joker Is Jack, M/M, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rough Sex, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-24 03:23:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8355043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erebus_And_Nyx/pseuds/Erebus_And_Nyx
Summary: The metal didn’t hold up under the man’s weight, no matter how thin he appeared. Though the railing was rusted in places, and clearly hadn’t been replaced in years. The railing snapped, long, thin cylinders of metal soaring through the air towards a chemical waste vat, filled with a bubbling, poison green concoction. Bruce moved faster than he ever has in his life. The man’s feet slipped off the edge of the catwalk, and he was in the air, hands flailing for purchase they couldn’t find. Bruce fell to his knees on the edge of the catwalk, his hand swiping through the air to try and catch the outreaching one of the man wearing the red hood.Their fingers brushed, and hooked- barely enough to keep the man from falling, but it was just enough.    aka the batman au where everything is the same but bruce caught jack napier before he could fall into the chemical vat





	1. Come To Me Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to everyone on tumblr who encouraged me to go forward with writing this fic !! i hope you all enjoy it, it's my first published batman fanfic, and an au (really my first one ever) so i hope everything goes okay
> 
> i have taken liberties with canon, and this is set in the comic!verse, though it's not really necessary to know much about the comics to understand this, since it's a huge au. i did use the joker backstory portrayed in the killing joke-- and given the nature of the story, i have taken liberties with elaborating on jack napier, since we don't get to know him that well from the killing joke. if you have any questions with timeline and/or continuity, feel free to ask, and i'll be happy to clear up any confusion c:
> 
> also i apologize- this isn't edited or beta-read, but i really wanted to get it posted tonight. i am looking for a beta reader if anyone is interested ^^
> 
> come say hi on my tumblr too, if you want http://bruce-thenight-wayne.tumblr.com

The last flowers he had left on his parents’ graves were rotted. They were white lotuses, with long stems and soft petals. The petals had decayed to paper- thin, shriveled, and stained a sepia brown. A few had fallen off, strewn across the ground, and slowly rotting into the ground. There were fresher flowers too, just starting to shrink from the lack of soil and water. Alfred must have left them, he’s the only one who would have at this point. The colors of these flowers were indiscernible now, bleached from the sun, and runny from rain.

Bruce had been back in Gotham for nearly a year now, but this was the first time he was visiting his parents in years. Alfred hadn’t touched the flowers Bruce had left on their gravestones before he left Gotham. He left that to Bruce. He hadn’t brought new flowers with him, but he scooped up the pitiful bouquet of white lotuses from where they lay on the ground. His gloved fingers came up to brush along one of the petals, which immediately detached and fluttered through the air for a moment until drifting to a stop at Bruce’s feet. 

The anger never went away. It was like the wind inside of him. Always there, he could always feel it, but some days it was only strong enough to ruffle his hair, and other days it was strong enough to knock him off his feet. Alfred had told him when he was a boy that the pain never went away, that _missing_ someone was something the heart could get over, but eventually it _would_ get better. The anger. The rawness. But sometimes when Bruce closed his eyes, he could convince himself that he was eight years old again, and that just yesterday that alley was painted crimson with his parents’ blood. 

Bruce wasn’t eight years old anymore. He was twenty five, and tall, and well built- no longer the poor, sad orphan kid that lived alone in that big old manor with nobody but his butler. He was Bruce Wayne, and so much more than that now. He’d only donned the cape and cowl few times, but he was already making a name for himself in the media. Blurry photographs, grainy videos taken in poor streetlight lightening of a dark figure swooping through skies, jumping from building to building. _Man or Myth?_ seemed to be the popular title to news articles and the opening statements of news reports. Sightings of the ‘Man-Bat’, that moved like a well-trained predator. Muscular, but light on his feet. Weightless, in a way. 

Nobody really knew if the ‘Man-Bat’ existed or not. And if he did, was he human? Was he just some freak in a costume. The GCPD had already made several statements about how they weren’t letting this ‘masked terror’ get away with dressing up like this to scare people and interfere with justice. But the GCPD was so corrupted with dirty cops, and in the palm of infamous Red Hood Gang that their word wasn’t taken seriously by many anymore. Of course there were a few cops that still wanted to do good, to clean up the city, but the people in power would never let it get that far so long as the leader of the Red Hood Gang kept slipping money into their pockets.

There was no such thing as heroes in Gotham. Many thought Gotham was too far gone at this point to be saved from destroying itself from the inside out, but Bruce always thought backwards compared to many people. Which is why he trained for years and years, to come back to this place, to be the hero that Gotham needed. Maybe it was some misguided sense of vengeance, to find justice for his parents by assisting the GCPD in apprehending the criminal scum that ran rampant in Gotham. Bruce liked to think it was more than that, a matter of morality. And a strict code of morals was something he did have. 

Alfred had asked his fair share of questions when Bruce revealed his plan to him upon returning to Gotham. One of which was ‘where is the line’. To Bruce, the line was clear as day (though he’d find with time how easily muddled it could really get). He doesn’t kill, he doesn’t mercilessly beat, he doesn’t torture. He brings justice to people without unnecessary cruelty. Or that was the idea anyway. 

Before even returning to Gotham, Bruce knew he had every intention of keeping his identity secret. One of the main reasons Bruce had waited so long after his return to Gotham before putting on the cowl for the first time. He didn’t need to raise suspicions. Fortunately, nobody honestly believed the pompous billionaire could have anything to do with the nightly activities of the Bat that involved gift-wrapping criminals for the GCPD (many of which mysteriously got off the hook during trial, though notably only the criminals under the Red Hood Gang) and patrolling across rooftops. 

It had been nearly dusk when Bruce got to the graveyard. The shadows the sinking sun set across the leaf dappled ground was beautiful, peaceful really- but there was nothing more disconcerting than the calm chaos that surrounded the air around his parents’ headstones. No matter how much time went by, it never really sunk in that they were dead, except for in the worst possible ways. 

As a child, Bruce would talk to the headstones like they could hear him. As a child, Bruce believed that they could. Their bodies were gone, but surely their souls were somewhere in the universe, waiting in a timeless purgatory to hear Bruce’s voice calling to them. To taste his tears as they ran hot down his red cheeks. Part of the reason why Bruce left the white lotus on the ground before he left Gotham was to symbolize his mother’s and father’s spiritual journey. The lotus had many beliefs attached to it, mainly in Buddhism and Hinduism, and while the Waynes were neither, sometimes one needs to take a leap on faith. 

But the lotus had rotted like something in Bruce did long ago. 

-

Bruce got back to the manor when the sun had almost completely sunk. Alfred had made dinner, though by now it was cold, still sitting on the table when Bruce walked in. The butler himself was nowhere to be scene. Perhaps down in the cave, which was still getting renovations, but fortunately Lucius Fox had managed to install something of a ‘mega-computer’ down there. The cops, or federal government, wouldn’t be able to trace it, and it hacked into the GCPD comm systems, to pick up on crime happening around the city on a minute-by-minute basis. Lucius had called the as-of-yet unnamed cave the ‘Batcave’ as a lighthearted jab at Bruce’s alter ego, though as the days went by, Bruce was finding himself more and more attached to the name. His own vigilante name was something of a work in progress, though already Bruce had thrown away the ‘Man-Bat’ idea. Though Bruce had to admit, ‘Batman’ certainly had a nice ring to it. Batman, with his Batcave, driving around his Batmobile. Speaking of the ‘Batmobile’, the vehicle wasn’t ready for driving yet, and was basically a modified military-grade vehicle Wayne Industries made years ago before the program got shut down. Fortunately for Bruce, all records of the vehicle -along with many other military inventions- were off record, or the records had all been destroyed. 

If Bruce was going to do this, it had to be flawless. One slip up, and it was all over. Alfred, Lucius- they would all get in serious trouble if the truth came out that Bruce was the vigilante ‘terrorizing’ Gotham. He had to keep this secret, and not only for his own sake. 

Bruce made his way down to the cave once he deduced that Alfred wasn’t cleaning up somewhere, or busy doing other work in other parts of the manor. As he made his way down into the poorly lit underneath of the manor, he called out for his butler, “Alfred? Are you down here?”

Bruce heard some rustling and a mumbled voice, “Here, Master Bruce!” The voice responded. Bruce hopped off the last step, rounding around the stone wall to see Alfred gazing at the large screen of the computer Lucius had installed. He turned at the scuffling of Bruce’s shoes across the ground, “Security officers at ACE Chemical Plant have contacted the GCPD because of possible suspicious activity. Maybe a Red Hood Gang hit.”

Bruce joined Alfred at the computer, glancing up at some of the security footage that was streaming from the chemical plant. There didn’t appear to be anything too terribly out of order, but Bruce knew better than anyone how quickly that could all change.

He’s had one run in with the Red Hood Gang before. Some petty botched robbery job. Their control quickly spiraled out of control when the GCPD showed up. Someone had set the alarm off -brave bastard- and when they did, Bruce’s computer in the cave picked it up. He had arrived on scene only minutes after the GCPD. He would have been inclined to let the police handle it, due to the fact that it wasn’t very high profile, and, if possible, Bruce wanted to avoid working with the cops directly, but he knew that the force wasn’t going to do their job properly while facing down the Red Hood and some of the gang members. 

Unlike the GCPD, Bruce couldn’t be bribed with money from the criminals. He didn’t take sides, he didn’t let off criminals easy. Thanks to his frightening costume choice and appearance, many of the criminals would balk out of fear upon seeing him. Only the more experienced ones would scoff at the get up like he was a kid trick or treating too early. Those criminals would soon be eating their words, assuming they made insulting jabs at Bruce.

Long story short, the Red Hood Gang was one of the most powerful influences in Gotham, run by The Red Hood himself. His identity was currently unknown, and he slipped through Bruce’s fingers during their first encounter. It was a mistake he didn’t intend to let happen. If he had any hope of breaking crime’s hold on the city, he needed to start with taking out the Red Hood Gang. 

The gang not only had the GCPD in the palm of their hand, but the rest of the Gotham Underworld as well. Other minor crime bosses, like the individual that goes by the alias ‘Penguin’, all were under the Red Hood Gang’s control. Once they saw that the gang could be brought down, no matter how powerful it once was, the other crime bosses would back off. Bruce would never have to concern himself with those bosses, he was almost sure of it. Still, he didn’t slack on learning about then when he had the time. This city had a way of surprising him.

Regardless, his main focus was the Red Hood Gang, and the security officer’s report was worth looking into. Whatever that gang could possibly want at a chemical plant was beyond Bruce, but he’s sure it was nothing good. Chemicals and bad guys mix like oil and water. 

“I’ll check it out. It’s worth looking into,” Bruce said as he moved away from the computer monitor to where his suit was on display. He needed a new cape already, his current one had two bullet holes from the previous run in with Red Hood. 

“Even if the GCPD show up, Sir? They’re not very fond of your theatrics,” Alfred clasped his hands behind his back as he shadowed Bruce over to the display case, his weathered eyes lingering on the bullet holes in the cape, “Nor is Gotham’s underworld,” there was a tinge of disapproval in Alfred’s tone, causing Bruce to glance over his shoulder at the older man. 

For his age, Alfred looked fairly good. His skin was whiter than it used to be, and wrinkles marred his skin, especially prominent around his eyes, mouth, and forehead. Laugh lines. His eyes were lively, but dark, having seen much too much in one lifetime than many see in several. Through the disapproval, Bruce could pick out the worry in Alfred’s features. The slightly pursed lips and narrowed eyes, and the way his arms flexed underneath his suit as he gripped his hands a bit tighter. Although Alfred was not Thomas Wayne, not that the father Bruce lost in the alleyway that night, he was still a father in many ways. Bruce would never insult Alfred by considering him to be anything less. And like any good father, he was worried. The ‘Man-Bat’ had only been on a few high profile missions, and already the cape was donning bullet holes. The suit itself was scratched from knives and bullets that had reflected off of it. 

But Alfred didn’t understand it like Bruce did. When he put on the cowl, he became someone else. Someone that had been stuffed down deep inside for as long as Bruce could remember. And though he might not know it now, that _someone_ was more himself than Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy, could ever be. 

“They’ll get used to it,” Bruce wasn’t sure if he was talking about Gotham’s criminals, or the GCPD, though perhaps it was both. He wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon, not when everything was just beginning. 

-

Bruce arrived at ACE Chemicals before the GCPD, if they were even coming. With the possible siting of the Red Hood, it would come as no surprise if they were taking their sweet time, or maybe would even neglect to come at all. The corruption inside the police department was nauseating, something Bruce had every intention of fixing with due time. At least he wasn’t alone in the matter.

He had pulled the files of several detectives, cops, and what-have-you involved with the GCPD. The clean ones. There were a dozen or so, most still rookies and fresh with hope. One caught his eyes. An older gentleman who had been on the force for years. James Gordon. Of course Bruce knew him from his youth, though not especially personally outside of the business surrounding his parents death, but Jim had always been a good man. Bruce never thought otherwise, even if Jim’s opinion of him since returning to Gotham has been less than stellar. Though wasn’t that the point? The less commendable Wayne’s actions are, the less likely it is for him to be the Bat symbol of justice in the city. 

Bruce was creeping along the roof of the building when he heard the echoing of gunshots from down below. A sound that jarred his bones every time he heard it. He quickened his pace until he found what he was looking for. A skylight. Though the lighting wasn’t the best inside the building, Bruce could still see the security personnel standing on a catwalk, firing at a blurry group of individuals fleeing around the ground on the lower level. 

Bruce could already tell it was excessive force. There were only three men, including the Red Hood, but no reason to use lethal weaponry to stop them. Especially since they were fleeing. Bruce kicked the skylight, the glass swinging inward. The gap was hardly big enough to shimmy through, though he managed it, his cape almost catching on the outside before he freed it and dropped almost silently on the catwalk behind the security officers. Just as he did so, one of them shot off another gun and there was a strangled cry from down below. Bruce gritted his teeth, pushing forward with surprising speed.

“No guns,” he grumbled, wrangling his grappling hook out of his utility belt as he smacked the gun out of the officer’s hand. Down below, there were two bodies. One further back, crumpled in an unmoving pile. The other was leaning against a structure, alive but clearly unwell. He wouldn’t make it. Bruce let no emotion cross his face as he fired off his grappling gun to catch on one of the beams. As he pushed off the railing of the catwalk, he threw one last comment over his shoulder at the startled officers, “I’m here now.” 

As Bruce soared through the air, his eye catching the distinct glint of the Red Hood pill-shaped helmet, he heard one of the shocked cries of the security officers behind him, using that god-awful nickname the press had given him. The ‘Man-Bat’. If Bruce had the time, and was still in earshot, he would have corrected them. _It’s Batman, actually_.

Red Hood was running across the floor of the building, throwing glances behind him occasionally, his cape billowing out behind him. If Bruce didn’t know any better, he would almost say the run looked frantic, uncoordinated. The Red Hood was supposed to be anything but. The real Red Hood anyway. Calm in a crisis, and the leader of the most influential crime gang in possibly all of Gotham’s history. Running panicked because he lost two men? 

Red Hood fled up a long series of stairs, his shoes thundering loudly against the metal. Bruce swung on his grapple before retracting it once it was safe to land on the catwalk, landing where Red Hood’s black dress shoes had been only moments before. The man had heard him land, spinning around to face him. Bruce couldn’t see the crime boss’s facial expression through the red mask, but the way he was slowly lifting his hands gave Bruce pause. The last time he had faced off against this gang, the Red Hood hadn’t surrendered quite so easily. 

“So, Red Hood, we meet again,” Bruce kept his voice low, dangerous, bordering on predatory.

“Don’t come any closer!” The man said back, loudly, as if he was trying to intimidate. But his voice was shaking, and squeaky, laced with terror. He sounded so much like Bruce did when he was telling the police about what had happened that night in the alley with his parents that it struck something deep in him. 

This wasn’t the real Red Hood, it was a piss poor impersonator. A young man, maybe even just a kid, playing at a big boy’s game. It was hard to tell with the mask on. He was lankier than Bruce remembered Red Hood being, and taller too. Even surpassing Bruce’s height. By the body alone it was hard to tell if it was a boy in his late teens, or one in his early to mid twenties, but the sound of the voice didn’t suggest anything older than that. This ‘Red Hood’ would be around Bruce’s age, maximum.

Bruce stepped closer, lips tugged into a frown. He opened his mouth to say something, to demand for the man to take the hood off, but the man went stumbling backwards too quickly, his hands reaching up to fumble with the bottom of the hood before Bruce even gave the order. What happened next happened in a matter of heartbeats. Seconds. 

The man, in his haste to remove the hood in surrender, stepped on the back of his red cape, which was dangling close the ground. He tripped backwards, one of his hands flying backwards to try and catch himself on something. His upper body went down, crashing against the railing on the edge of the catwalk. The metal didn’t hold up under the man’s weight, no matter how thin he appeared. Though the railing was rusted in places, and clearly hadn’t been replaced in years. The railing snapped, long, thin cylinders of metal soaring through the air towards a chemical waste vat, filled with a bubbling, poison green concoction. 

Bruce moved faster than he ever has in his life. The man’s feet slipped off the edge of the catwalk, and was in the air, hands flailing for purchase they couldn’t find. Bruce fell to his knees on the edge of the catwalk, his hand swiping through the air to try and catch the outreaching one of the man wearing the red hood.

Their fingers brushed, and hooked- barely enough to keep the man from falling, but it was _just enough_. Bruce’s throat was locked as he quickly swung his other hand down to grasp at the dangling man’s wrist to keep him from slipping and falling. The red hood was half off his head, showing the bottom half of his face. The man had a narrow, pointed chin, and a wide mouth, which was currently parted in fear, and open for the huge gasps of air he was taking in. 

“Don’t let go,” Bruce grunted, the muscles in his arms starting to ache slightly from holding the weight of the man. He leaned back, scooting as best as he could on his knees to haul Red Hood up onto the catwalk once more. It took several careful minutes of maneuvering and pulling until the man could collapse onto the catwalk, grabbing the base of the cap to pull the hood off completely. 

Just as Bruce had suspected, the man was around his age. His skin was sickly pale from stress and fear, his irises only thin brown rims around his wide pupils. His brown, slightly wavy hair was slick with sweat and plastered to his forehead, and the back of his neck. His face was angular, well-defined, and uniquely shaped. What some might describe as an ‘acquired taste’ though not was Bruce would consider ‘unattractive’. 

The man’s entire body was trembling, as one hand went up to brush the stingy, sweat soaked hair out of his eyes, “I- I’m not-” The man gestured vaguely at the red hood and cape laying on the catwalk beside him.

Bruce, still kneeling, let his eyes wander between the hood and the obviously shaken up individual, “I know,” he pushed himself to his feet, his hand reaching down to grab the back of the other man’s suit to tug him to his feet. The man struggled upwards, legs shaking with adrenaline. “Who are you?”

“I’m nobody! I’m just- they made me do this. I told them, _I told them_ I didn’t want to do it, and they- they made me,” the man’s eyes had diverted from Bruce’s face, back down the stairs to where the dead figures of the other gang members could just barely be seen. “You’re that- vigilante everyone is talking about.

“What’s your _name_?” Bruce didn’t have time for answering questions about himself. But finding out this man’s name was pivotal. For knowing whatever crimes he might’ve committed prior to this, to know if he was lying about being forced into this. And maybe, he was the real Red Hood after all, and was just pretending that he wasn’t with the ‘innocent victim’ act. Though Bruce did doubt that.

“Oh- um. Jack. Jack Napier. I didn’t want to do this, I swear it,” the man paused, his tongue darting out to swipe along his bottom lip to wet it, “Are you taking me to jail?”

The question, though half expected, took Bruce by surprise. He’d never been put in this situation before. He’s always confronted criminals in the middle of their act, and there was no question as to whether or not they were being coerced. But Bruce couldn’t turn this man -Jack Napier- over to the GCPD in good conscious knowing that he might not be entirely responsible for what happened here today. That wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t justice. The man wasn’t the Red Hood, and he was shaking like a leaf- not exactly heartless fugitive stuff.

Bruce peered at Napier. He had been trained to detect lying in people, from the way their pulse fluttered more noticeably in their necks, or the way their eyes looked. There were always subconscious little details to notice when someone was lying, and Napier hadn’t shown any of those. 

“You were coerced,” Bruce said simply, painfully aware in this moment of how terrifying his appearance must be, and how the gruff sound of his voice was anything but comforting. But the point of this wasn’t to be comforting, “If you’re telling the truth. That makes you as much of a victim as anyone else.” Bruce still intended to run a background check as soon as he could, just to make sure the guy was clean, but for now he released the back of Napier’s suit. Without another word, Bruce turned to leave, scooping his grappling gun off the ground where he had dropped it in his haste to keep Napier from falling into the vat. 

“Thanks- thank you for saving me, Man-Bat” Napier’s voice suddenly said. Bruce had no intentions of responding until he heard the horrible name. He paused in his tracks, fighting the tiny shift in his facial expression as he glanced over his shoulder at the man who he just saved.

“It’s Batman, actually.”


	2. goodbye darling, until we meet again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow im wild look at this update months later
> 
> im not very happy with this chapter, but i've had musing for this story and really wanted to start writing it again, but in the haitus i kinda forgot my initial plotline, besides the ending i've had in mind, so i'm sorry if things seem odd or ooc or whatever-- hopefully things will make a little more sense later on? or wont seem as weird? idk just bear with me, i hope things don't seem too unrealistic lmao 
> 
> also really unedited because im tired and wanted to post it even though it's been-- months what am i doing

Tragedy is a funny little thing. The human heart is the size of a fist, but holds infinite room for love, and thus for tragedy, because one cannot exist without the other. Nothing can be loved, and never be mourned, since the only way good things end is badly. Despite knowing this, despite putting up walls, the human heart will always accept someone, something, into it. Eventually, sooner or later, it will be vulnerable to tragedy. The human heart is supposed to protect itself, humans have ribs and flesh for just that reason, which makes the absurdity of love laughable. Tragedy is comedy. The two are not mutually exclusive, comedy can be happiness, it can be anger, but tragedy is always comedy, at the core of what it is. 

As an aspiring comedian, one might assume that Jack Napier knew this. If he were to perform, and make a living out of getting people to laugh, _surely_ he must know the ins and outs of comedy, and all its tragic flaws. So, yes, one might assume that Jack understood anything tragic was really comedic, and it hurts a lot less to think of it in that way. Laughs are better than tears- unless one is crying with laughter, the perfect accumulation of both tragedy and comedy. Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to think of his own loss as comedy. What kind of soul could twist death into entertainment? It was a double standard, of course, since deep down Jack knew that even his own tragedy wasn’t exempt from comedy, but the illusion in which he resided, in which his tragedy was not comedic because it was _everyone’s tragedy_ , was a much more pleasant place than reality. And the reality of it was that his tragedy was just that- _his_. To everyone else, it was just another tragic comedy.

Jack supposed that until it happened to you, anything could be funny. And to most people, it usually was. 

In the days following Jack’s encounter with the Batman, he’s had things to focus on rather than the grief eating away at his heart- that damned, infinite muscle. One of the most pressing issues was his state of homelessness. Not only did he not have any money, besides what very little was in his bank account, but he didn’t have an apartment anymore. Maybe if he had insurance, he would’ve been able to get his feet back under himself, but if he had enough money to afford insurance, he would never have turned to the Red Hood Gang for cash. If he was being honest, though, he never would’ve thought of getting insurance anyway. Jeannie was always the one that thought about those things, she was always more practical than him, even if her love for him drove her to encourage his dream to become a stand-up comic. What a fool he was, thinking he’d ever make it big. Enough to support his _family_. What was wrong with him? Was he really that naive? 

Not that any of that mattered anymore. Jeannie was gone, the apartment was gone, any future Jack might’ve foreseen for himself was gone. Maybe Batman should’ve just let him fall into the acid, and he could be reunited with Jeannie, in whatever afterlife there must be, since if life was this _shitty_ , for lack of a more flowery adjective, there has to be something after. Or maybe that’s just what Jack’s convinced himself on his third lap around the same eleven blocks, because if he believes that he’ll never seen Jeannie again, in this life or in the next, he thought he might lose his mind. But- he’s lost everything else, what would the real harm be in losing that too? 

Jack didn’t have much to do anymore other than think. When he wasn’t reflecting on his current situation, his mind wanders to his memories. Most of them of Jeannie, most of them happy. Some of them sad though. Fortunately for Jack, Jeannie was one of the most optimistic person he’s ever had the pleasure of meeting, and it took an unnatural amount of misfortune to dishearten her. He did like to focus on the pleasant memories though; of their private, spontaneous wedding, the way she looked in the morning when she just woke up, makeup-less, messy hair, bathed in the glow from the rising sun shining in through the curtains. Thinking of those times could make Jack smile, just a bit, but it was never for long. Feeling any sort of happiness just seemed wrong, like he was doing Jeannie a disservice. Though, it wasn’t like he cried either. There come a point when sadness surpases that, and just funnels into numbness. Jack swore his chest felt hollow, and it _ached_ , but still the tears never came. The crushing sense of despair and hopeless that took its place was leagues worse though. 

After passing the same rundown, abandoned apartment building for the twelfth time, Jack stifled a sigh as he veered off the sidewalk into the thin alley running between the two buildings. It smelled like cat piss and mold and dirt, and the ground was littered with cardboard bits and questionable grime, but Jack lowered himself onto it anyway, his back braced against one of the buildings, the cold and damp seeping in through his dress shirt. He had the jacket up until his second day out on the street, in which he used it as protection from the rain. He intended on keeping it, but it never seemed to dry out and started to smell of mildew by the third day, so he lost it down another alleyway. All of which looked the same to him now, and no longer slightly intimidating like they used to be. Hell, half the time he was sleeping in them. It was pathetic. If he had never quit his job at the plant he wouldn’t be here now. Jeannie might still be alive. Their baby- no, he couldn’t think about that, the ache in his chest gripped harder at the very thought. Torturing himself with could-haves and should-haves weren’t going to bring Jeannie back. 

Jack’s stomach rumbled, breaking him out of his thoughts. Besides shelter, food was another resource that was becoming increasingly harder to get ahold of. Given what minimal cash Jack had on him, and his lack of a way to access his bank account, the amount he got to eat and the frequency he did eat was growing slimmer and slimmer. Still, despite the possibility of starvation a very real fate, he was lacking in any motivation to try and find a job. Where would be work anyway? He didn’t have a great track record of keeping jobs, and the ones he did keep he dropped on a whim, which left him virtually without any references that would recommend hiring him. It didn’t help that the helplessness he felt stretched past just the hole in his chest. It sapped at any desire he had to pick himself back up. That, coupled with guilt and self-loathing, is what kept him sitting on the ground. 

The sun was starting to go down, darkness beginning to yawn over the city. Once upon a time, Jack would be getting dressed in a crisp suit, sweating a mile a minute, as he took a taxi cab to some back room show, turning the jokes over and over in his mind until he was sure he’d get people to laugh. Hell, once upon a time, he’d be coming home from the factory, to Jeannie, and the very beginnings of her baby bump, and an apartment that wasn’t falling apart. Now he was out here though, and as every respectable person retired for the night, the other half of Gotham came out to play. 

-

“Please don’t!” the cry split through the air as Bruce’s knuckles split open a cut in the rapist’s temple. The man collapsed to the ground, still very much alive, but unconscious, with fresh waves of blood dripping down the side of his face. It looked worse than it was, even the splattering of red across Bruce’s knuckles seemed a bit much, but head wounds always bled a lot. The man wasn’t in danger of bleeding out, though, especially not since the GCPD would be picking him up soon, and he’d get medical attention at Black Gate. The girl he had just saved stood behind him, young and doe-eyed, on her way home from the grocery store. Said groceries were now scattered all over the alley; the milk split open and curling around Bruce’s boots as it leaked towards the vent in the ground. Bruce wasn’t sure was the girl was thinking, walking home in a notoriously bad part of town, and cutting through an especially long alleyway between two avenues, though that’s why he was here. To protect people from scum like this one, so people could feel safe and confident walking home at night, and taking as many short cuts through alleyways as they saw fit. 

The girl didn’t say anything, she hadn’t ever since her first cry for help. Fortunately, the rapist didn’t have a chance to do any real harm before Bruce intervened, just managed to rip a tear through the girl’s long-sleeved shirt, and push her to the ground, but she recovered quickly. Bruce didn’t expect any gratitude, especially not when he was well-aware of the rumors floating around on the news trashing his character, making him out to be an even worse human being than the criminals he took down. A nameless, faceless hero made a great villain in the papers. Not that what the papers had to say mattered to Bruce much, he found Alfred fussed over them more than he himself did- if Bruce had any real reason to fear prosecution by the GCPD, he wouldn’t have had to become Batman to begin with. 

Bruce glanced back at the girl once more, minutely impressed by the steely expression beginning to form on her face. Her brown eyes flickered up to his as she tightened her fist around the purse clenched in her hand and she turned, and left. No fanfare, no thanks, only carefully stifled, frightened tears behind the girl’s eyes. Had Bruce the time, he would’ve admired her strength, but the night was young and Gotham was relentless. He knew the GCPD was trailing him- rather, trying to catch him, but Bruce already knew that the likelihood of them actually apprehending him was next to impossible, so rather than hide, he led them across the city to the criminal scum he knocked out. The GCPD could deal with the more- legal proceedings; the courts and sentencing, whether or not criminals would be brought to Arkham Asylum for mental rehabilitation, or Blackgate for hard time. 

Although there was no real direction in the night, as to where the next crime would happen, Bruce knew the shadier parts of time, where he tended to lurk and wait. After securing the rapist’s hands, he grappled up to the top of the nearest building, the lights of sirens from a few blocks down the street immediately visible from this vantage point, as well as a large expanse of Gotham. Most of the narrower alleyways were invisible from the rooftop, from the shadows of the buildings, but the wider alleyways and one way streets and abandoned roadways, all susceptible to criminal activity, were more than exposed to his sight. It was from this rooftop that Bruce noticed an abnormally shaped shadow, hunched back against a building. Despite his large side, and the heavy armor he wore, Bruce moved silently and gracefully across the rooftops- not entirely unlike a certain femme fatale he’d had the _pleasure_ of encountering a few times. And all times failing to apprehend, her combat and agility skill giving his own a decent run for their money. 

As Bruce crossed over another rooftop before dropping down into the alleyway, he already discerned the unmoving, dark lump was definitely a humanoid figure. Immediately several possibilities rolled over in his mind; most likely, a homeless person had overdosed. Even that was a fairly hopeful possibility, for any other possibility strongly indicated that the person had been seriously wounded, perhaps even killed given how still it was.

For a man that doesn’t kill, Bruce knew an awful lot about blood. All about it’s biological components, naturally, but beyond that he’s learned to recognize the scent of it, the iron tang that always hung in the air after bloodshed. He’s learned to recognize the way the moonlight would glint off of it in the dark, somehow distinctly different from any other liquid, even when the crimson color was damn near indiscernible. Although he never lingered on it, Bruce could logically understand his innate ability to recognize blood came from that night in the alleyway. He saw it every night in his dreams, heard the sounds, smelled the thick, choking scent of blood in the air, the way it looked on the ground, wholly wrong and unnatural, so much in fact that it resonated deeply even within a child. Bruce couldn’t remember much of his childhood, but that night was clearer than yesterday. Though he’d never admit it out loud, not to Alfred or Gordon or anyone how the memory replayed behind his eyes at any given moment like a scene from a horror movie, he could in the quiet of his mind acknowledge it to himself, at least. 

Long story short, the pool by the man was not blood. The air smelled grimy and dirty, musty really, but not tainted. The moon reflected off the liquid, it didn’t absorb the light- the small pool had formed as a result of a dripping pipe from one of the rooftops above, Bruce noted, and the person was likely unharmed. Unless, there was an overdose, of course. He didn’t hesitate to close the distance between himself and the unmoving the figure, though he stopped prematurely when his eyes made out the finer features of the man. Slightly curly brown hair, locks of it hanging in his face, obviously unwashed and unbrushed. Sharp cheekbones and nose and chin, skin slightly wrinkled though not from age, but from- stress, perhaps? Worry? His clothes were much too fancy for a man in his condition, hanging off his unnaturally scrawny, and tall, frame, ripped at the edges and strained, clearly having been through as much as their wearer. 

It wasn’t the hollowed out appearance of the man that took Bruce aback though, but rather the familiarity. He recognized the man immediately as the one from the chemical plant, who nearly lost his life in an accident had Bruce not caught him. The man playing as Red Hood. Clearly, his assumptions of this man not being the notorious gang leader were correct. Bruce hadn’t took him for a drug addict at the time, though it surely would explain his need for money, his skinniness, and his current predicament. Jack Napier. Bruce never did run a background check, despite logging the name in his computer for future reference- he had a knack for telling whether or not people were lying, and there was something about his Napier that convinced Bruce that he hadn’t been lying about being coerced. And Bruce had meant when he said, that it made Jack as much as a victim as the rest of the them. Even if he was involved in drugs- most of the time, turning to such things were caused by emotional distress, childhood and adolescence troubles; again, making drug addicts more of victims of circumstance and situation than anything else. Something Bruce could- personally relate to. Being a victim of circumstance. 

Confident that the GCPD would not be interrupting him anytime soon, Bruce took a few more steps forward until he was able to reach down and jostle Napier’s should. The reaction was instant, the scrawny man jerking from his place on the ground, eyes opening and widening as he scrambling against the wall, his shoes struggling to find purchase on the ground so suddenly as he forced himself up. Bruce assisted by grabbing Napier’s upper arm and hauling him to his feet. Despite the flash of amusement he felt, Bruce’s face remained carefully neutral, as he studied the man fate had decided he run into twice now. Maybe more than just coincidence at this point. 

Surprisingly, Napier spoke first, his initial shock at being awoken passing, “Oh, it’s you,” the relief evident in the man’s tone was- new to Bruce. It took him back again. Although it was not his intention to strike fear into the hearts of average, law-abiding citizens (possible drug addictions withstanding), it was a- predictable side effect of his get-up and unorthodox acts of crime fighting. Yet, Jack didn’t sound nearly as nervous as he did upon their first meeting, and, as Bruce already noted, was distinctly _relieved_. As if Bruce was the only one he even knew in this world anymore. 

“You weren’t moving,” Bruce remarked, backing off Napier to give him some space. Even more relaxed than their first meeting, he still seemed slightly nervous. Maybe he was just a nervous individual, though even if he wasnt, Bruce was sure his appearance didn’t help any pre-existent nervous or anxiety disorders. 

“Well, I _was_ sleeping,” Jack spared Bruce a glance, fiddling with the front of his ruined suit. Nervous, yes, but there was also a certain lack of care that was distinct in his words and tones. It wasn’t- careful, like how it was in the chemical plant. Like he was no longer scared of saying the wrong thing. Whether that reflected on Bruce gaining Jack’s trust, or Jack’s uncaring about what happened to him now, Bruce wasn’t sure. “It’s touching to know you were concerned, though I bet you check on every homeless man you see.” 

Bruce frowned. He hadn’t been- concerned, though if Napier had overdosed, morally it would’ve been wrong to leave him. Clearly he hadn’t, but he didn’t know that at the time, “It’s not uncommon for people to overdose in these parts of the city,” Bruce clarified- why he even felt the need to clarify was beyond him. Why he encouraged conversation with Napier despite knowing the man was, more or less, physically fine was also beyond him. Some deeper part of Bruce’s psyche was intrigued. He _wanted_ to know this man’s story. Know why he was wearing that Red Hood, why he was homeless, why his attitude shifted from that of a very nervous man in the plant to the almost recklessly indifferent one now, if his attitude now was anything to go by. 

“And what? You’d arrest me if I did?” Napier spat suddenly, once again, and for the third time in an extremely short amount of time, taking Bruce back. The man’s emotional range was clearly- wider than he had been anticipating, “I’m not on drugs,” Napier clarified in a quieter tone a second later, even as he stumbled away a step. 

“Would you have preferred I let you die if you did?” The monotone comment earned Bruce a glare- which caused an unexpected flare of amusement in his stomach. Nothing was traditionally amusing about the situation, which was odd- Bruce was analyzing the situation too much. He was making small talk. Stalling. As if he didn’t want to leave just yet. Curiousity, he reminded himself, he wanted to know this man’s story. Was an alleyway in the middle of the night really a good time? When was there a better time? Bruce and Batman were both distinct personalities, Napier could only ever know one. And ‘know’ had to be a loose term. Batman didn’t make- friends. Didn’t make small talk. Yet here he was. Bruce’s mind was doing circle, collapsing and confusing itself so much he almost missed when Napier talked again. 

“Actually, yes,” Napier said, almost as monotonously as Bruce’s question, detached from both nervousness and indifference and anger. “In case you didn’t notice, I’m living in an alleyway, and I’m not on drugs. Life hasn’t been very good to me. Hell, I met you when-” Jack cut off suddenly, as if overwhelmed by thoughts, even though his face changed little besides the tightening of his brow. 

Bruce struggled for a minute over whether or not to just turn and leave right now. He’d done his duty of making sure the man hadn’t overdosed yet- was it really humane to leave him here? Homeless? Most likely sick and very hungry? Obviously emotionally distressed? And, on a deeper note, was Batman _supposed_ to be humane? He was here to stop crime, not to feed the homeless. Not to mention this man wasn’t exactly one of a kind. The homeless and starving population in Gotham was, quite frankly, off the charts. But maybe he was one of a kind. Again, it’s not everyday that you run into a homeless man that was also posing as the Red Hood. Or coerced into doing so, anyway. And that ‘why’ was eating Bruce alive. He wanted to know Jack Napier’s story; illogically, inexplicably, it was important to him. More important than it should be. 

His hand found Napier’s arm again, “You need food. You’re obviously famished, and dehydrated.”

“I’m hardly the only one. Why don’t you go find someone else to save, hero? You already saved me once,” the bitterness was back to Jack’s tone, his mood swings further reflecting his decaying mental and physical wellbeing. Or maybe Bruce was reading too much into it. Regardless, he didn’t let the man’s arm go, despite not knowing exactly _how_ he was supposed to get him food and water and shelter, and something stabilizing. It wasn’t as if he could bring him back to Wayne Manor. No matter how much he wanted to know Napier’s story, he would never want to know it enough to risk exposing his identity. Not to someone he barely knew. 

“Come with me,” Bruce’s voice left little room for argument, as he gave Napier’s arm a tug, essentially dragging him off in one direction. There were plenty of abandoned warehouses that Bruce knew of around here. He’d investigated many of them to see if they were potential bases for criminal activity. In the current area of the city, only one of the warehouses he investigated had criminal activity going on in it. And it was one of the larger, more noticeable ones. The one Bruce had in mind for Napier for a potential shelter was almost more of a large room than a warehouse. Entry into the abandoned warehouses, was, of course, forbidden, by law, since the property was technically available for purchase, and normally Bruce would uphold the law and make sure that nobody was breaking into them, but since he was out of options as to where to bring Napier, having immediately crossed off the possibility of bringing him to the Manor, and knowing he also couldn’t bring him to the police station, since he would be arrested on the spot, one of the smaller warehouses seemed like the only- option, even if it was just a temporary set up. And even then, there was no guarantee that Napier would stay there once Bruce left. But why was he concerned about whether or not Napier stayed at the warehouse? The man was none of his business- once he got the answers from him, he shouldn’t matter.   
But there was something about him that Bruce couldn’t quite put his finger on. Although- he often argued with himself over fate and destiny and the meaning of life -if there was any of that to begin with, one of his sides argued- there were more primal parts of him that seemed to recognize fate so much that it was out of Bruce’s conscious control. This was one of those moments. As- strange as it sounded, he could see parts of himself mirror in Napier. Not of Bruce Wayne, but of Batman, which was something wholly unexpected. And irrational. He sounded like a crazy man with an obsession with a stranger, someone he happened across at a chemical plant. But- at the same time leaving Jack out there, and imagining never running into him seemed _cosmically wrong_ , in a way Bruce cannot explain. 

Some things are probably left better unexplained. 

-

Weary and wary as he was, Jack hadn’t put up any fight upon the Batman dragging him from his alley to some- place. His body was exhausted, and his mind was starting to reflect this. Even he could tell that he wasn’t behaving normally. Any normal person would be scared witless of Batman, even after being saved by him, and yet Jack was not. Outside of his unavoidable nervous ticks, like tugging on his clothes, he found himself irritable, even going as far as to snap at the Batman a few times. It was- dumb, to say the least. The man could end him so fast. But he saved him from falling in that acid vat, to kill him for being irritable seemed just as dumb as well. 

Truly, Jack had wished that he had overdosed and died. It would’ve put an end to the tragic joke that is his life, currently. And for the foreseeable future. Maybe the Batman didn’t understand his inner turmoil -how could he? He didn’t know what happened- and the idea of dying being more agreeable than being saved seemed- well, Jack didn’t quite have a word for it, but put simply, Jack really, truly, would’ve preferred to die than he saved for a second time by this man dressed up as a bat. It’d put an end to the misery, the gnawing emptiness filling Jack’s heart- the purposeless life he was now stuck in. 

Thoughts such as these, as Jack became increasingly more aware of the existential crisis he was sinking into, plagued his mind and silenced his tongue as Batman led him off. Shockingly enough, despite the many alleyways they passed through, they didn’t come across another soul. Even this part of the city had abandoned itself. 

The building Batman eventually stopped at was decayed, that much Jack could tell. It was made of brick -and no modern Gotham homes were made of brick anymore- and falling apart at the seams. One of the widows was rotted around the frame and had sunken in on itself, weeds had grown up the sides of the building, practically concealing it, given how small the building was. There was a set of stairs with an iron-wrought railing leading down to what appeared to be a wooden door, crossed off with police tape. Definitely not the kind of place Jack envisioned himself being at today, but he let Batman drag him down the stairs to the door anyway. Unsurprisingly, it was unlocked. But, surprisingly, it was empty when Batman pushed open the door. There was only a thin strip of light in the room, from the moon shining in through the dust covered, caved in window. The rest of the room was bare. Completely. The floor was concrete, the walls covered in a peeling wallpaper, so old and neglected that the original pattern was impossible to make out. 

Once inside the room, Batman was released Jack’s wrist. Jack, meanwhile, was staring at the vigilante like he had lost his mind. Which, given what his nightly hobby was, wouldn’t be much of a stretch. “What is this place?” Jack asked finally, when Batman failed to explain first. Batman just looked at Jack, as if he was the one that had lost his mind. 

“It’s one of twenty-seven abandoned warehouses in this district. Technically, it’s property owned by the state.”

“I’m guessing trespassing is illegal?”

“Yes,” Batman paused for a second, “The state records of this particular warehouse haven’t been opened in years. It would be remarkable if they even remembered it was here.”

Jack shrugged, “Vigilantism is probably more illegal than trespassing anyway.” 

“I’m trying to give you a place to stay.”

“I’m still touched that you’re concerned. But why? Why me? Why not- I don’t know, any other homeless person in Gotham?” 

“Because I have questions for you,” Batman said after a beat of silence, “I don’t care what you believe about me, if it helps you can think I brought you here out of the kindness in my heart-”

“You didn’t?”

Batman was always glaring, though it sharpened at Jack’s interruption, hard enough now to immediately make him regret his snarkiness, “I need you to answer some questions for me, but not out there. Not in this state,” Batman turned back towards the door, as if he was making to leave. And clearly, he was, since he was already putting one foot out the door. 

“I already told you that I’m not- I’m not the Red Hood. What more do you want from me? Why not just ask now?” Jack hadn’t been staring at the door, rather he glanced back to examine the interior of the pathetic excuse of a warehouse. Not even a bed. What kind of safe haven was this? When he got no answer, his gaze shifted back to the door, eyes widening minutely when he noticed that it was empty. 

Confusion bubbled inside him, for one overriding the depression lurking in his heart. The sudden interest that the Batman took in him should be- frightening, and to an extent it was. But it was also curious. Sure, Jack would surmise that Batman just wanted to know why he was coerced into working with the Red Hood Gang anyway, but if that’s all he wanted to know couldn’t he just ask in the alleyway? Jack wasn’t intentionally hiding anything. No, instead he brought him to the outskirts of the district, to an abandoned warehouse that he could use as shelter, informed him that he needed to ask him questions, and left before asking any. The- reasonable thing to do would be to leave. Clearly this man was deranged. If he wasn’t already convinced by his hobby and costume, then surely this- fascination with Jack and strange behavior was just further proof that he was seriously mentally unstable. Despite acknowledging this, Jack tugged the door shut and meandered his way to the corner of the room, a few feet away from the strip of pale moonlight shining into the room. The slide down the wall and landed on the ground with a loud thump in the silence of the warehouse, stretching his leg out so the moonlight caught the tip of his shoe and glinted off of it. 

“‘I need you to answer questions for me’- yeah, what questions?” Jack huffed to himself, bringing his nail down to press into the concrete like he could leave a mark there, “Yeah, I’ll just wait here, for the crazy man in a batsuit to come back and question me. Yeah, it’s not like I have anything better to do,” Jack barked with laughter, even as he felt his eyes well with tears, “Yeah, it’s not like there’s someone waiting for me at home, Batman. What about you? Is that why you had to rush home? Do you have someone at home? Must be nice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yall can still come say hi on my tumblr (huhjean.tumblr.com) im v lonely at all times though i reblog a lot of star trek now


End file.
